


and in health

by bog gremlin (tomatocages)



Series: nonsexual intimacy prompts [6]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Illnesses, Keith (Voltron)'s Shack, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Not Voltron: Legendary Defender Season/Series 08 Compliant, Post-Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25386628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomatocages/pseuds/bog%20gremlin
Summary: The entire Garrison comes down with the 'flu, and Keith, fresh off a Blades mission, heads straight to the shack he’s been rebuilding in the desert — where he promptly succumbs to a different virus entirely. And that's when Shiro shows up.Post-canon, S8 does not exist.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Series: nonsexual intimacy prompts [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838314
Comments: 6
Kudos: 95





	and in health

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GoldenTruth813](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenTruth813/gifts).



> Nonsexual intimacy prompt: taking care of each other while ill ([originally posted on twitter 7/01/20](https://twitter.com/boggremlin/status/1278520757681893378))

Three months after the war officially ends, everyone at the Garrison-slash-Coalition HQ comes down with some sort of flu. Keith is spared, barely, because he was on a reconnaissance mission with the blades and gets a transmission warning him to observe infectious disease protocols when returning to base. In lieu of donning a mask and protective gown, Keith heads straight to the shack he’s been rebuilding in the desert — where he promptly succumbs to a different virus entirely, because that last supply drop he went on seemed engineered to make his life miserable. 

He fills out his reports, submits them electronically, and curls up in a quivering mess under one of the emergency blankets from his shuttle. It’s not the first time he’s ridden out some kind of illness by himself. Keith is pretty sure it won’t be the last, because as miserable as he feels, he doubts this will be what kills him. 

Pidge must intercept Keith’s report, because the next thing he knows, Keith’s got a dozen messages from Hunk on his communicator, the last of which is a notification that Hunk, despite his own illness, has created a welcome-home basket and will have Shiro deliver it. 

Of course, Keith thinks, dropping the device and rolling into a sunbeam on a clear section of the floor. Shiro’s healthy as an ox; of course he’d be spared from whatever plague is circulating on base. They probably want him out of harm’s way.

This is not exactly true, as it turns out: Shiro has a mild case of whatever-it-is, and is attempting to power through it. Hunk may or may not have sent him to Keith in hopes of getting Shiro to take a minute to recuperate. 

He shows up at Keith’s cabin wearing three sweaters and a pair of old gym shorts, shouldering a backpack cooler. His eyes are bleary and his hair has gone absolutely limp against his forehead, like Shiro can’t be bothered to maintain appearances. That’s a bad sign; Shiro’s impeccable presentation is a sort of armor.

Still, despite his own obvious misery, Shiro’s first act upon entering the shack is to set the cooler down and hurry to Keith’s side, where he collapses heavily onto his knees. It’s a two-edged sword: he blocks the light from getting into Keith’s eyes, which is nice, but he also blocks enough of the sunbeam that Keith starts shivering once again. It took ages for him to stop shivering at all, and Keith’s not looking forward to forcing himself through another series of sword forms until he breaks a sweat.

“Keith,” Shiro says — gasps, really. He sounds awful. “Keith, you’re hurt.”

“Just sick,” Keith manages, and twists until he can meet Shiro’s gaze. “ _You’re_ sick.”

“A little,” Shiro acknowledges. “Or, a lot. I don’t feel good.”

“Help yourself to the floor,” Keith rasps back. “Sorry, I’m not a great host at the moment.” 

“Hunk sent me — “ Shiro starts, and Keith hurries to interrupt him.

“I know, he sent you to me so I could take care of you.” Keith’s not usually quite so blunt, not with Shiro — not about Shiro — but his skin feels like it's being run over with tiny needles, and it takes conscious effort to breathe. “‘M sorry, Shiro.”

Shiro flops inelegantly out of his kneeling position to lie perpendicular on the floor, his head nearly resting against Keith’s chest. “What a pair we are,” he says. “The Black Paladins.”

This won’t do at all; Keith was fine with lying on the floor until his fever broke, but Shiro needs comfort and rest. Keith rolls the rest of the way over, until he’s on his front, and levers himself up to hands and knees. It takes a few tries, but he manages. Shiro watches him worriedly but makes no move to assist. 

“C’mon,” Keith rasps. “Shove the bag from Hunk over, I’ll find a real blanket.”

Keith manages to drag an afghan off the terrifying sofa, as well as two of the nicer cushions. He arranges them into a really pathetic nest, centering it so it’ll get the good sunbeam as it travels across the floor. Shiro, meanwhile, has turned off and disconnected his prosthetic, undone the fastenings on the cooler, and is shuffling through the little drink packs Hunk sent along: most of them are Shiro’s favorites, different varieties of melon and guava. 

“Don’t worry, there’s a prickly pear one for you,” Shiro says, listlessly. It isn’t really Keith’s favorite; it was just the flavor he could always count on being leftover and discounted. But he doesn't hate it. 

Despite the activity warming him some, Keith’s boneless and grateful when he drapes himself back into the sunbeam. Shiro follows him down and rolls even closer this time; he even _smells_ ill, that subtle reek of unwashed hair and sick-sweat permeating through all of his sweaters. Shiro looks smaller like this, without the added bulk of his other arm, and he’s cuddlier, too. Keith probably doesn’t smell much better. 

Keith burrows against Shiro’s chest and mashes one ear over Shiro’s left pec, so he can hear his faltering, tired heartbeat. Shiro brings up his hand and rests it against Keith’s hair, holding him in place.

“Welcome home,” Shiro tells him. It sounds like a joke. 

“Good to be back,” Keith says, and passes out. 

He wakes later — late enough that Shiro’s been up and shed two of his sweaters, then reinserted himself into the nest and dragged Keith atop him in lieu of using the afghan. Keith still feels like death, but Shiro’s starting to perk up, as if all he needed to shake his bug was a solid nap and three smoothies. 

“Okay?” Shiro asks. Keith has no notion what Shiro could be asking about, unless he’s commenting on how the good sunbeam has travelled far enough away that it’s no longer long and warm against Keith’s spine. Pity; you’d think that the desert would be all sunbeams, all the time, but it turns out the sun moves here just the same as it does anywhere else on this planet. 

“Go back to bed,” Keith slurs. “It’s not morning.”

“Okay,” Shiro says again, this time to himself. “We’ll feel better tomorrow.”


End file.
